Road to Corruption
by BloodiedTongues
Summary: What turns the humble proud? What turns the brave into a coward, or the honourable evil? Witness an in-depth study of those orcs who fell into darkness and dragged their people along with them. Rated M for future chapters.


**Disclaimer:** _I don't own Warcraft or any other Blizzard related material. Except my World of Warcraft account…Well, technically that belongs to Blizzard, since the GMs can close it at any time. But I own the characters, they are all mine…well the idea of them anyway. Should the account be closed, I no longer have them. Hmmm. I own the now-useless pre-paid game card._

This is the story of one of my World of Warcraft characters, who has unfortunately been edited in both name and looks since I began this story. My intention is to explain why the spiritual guidance of the orcs, their shamans, turned to the magic of warlocks and why some of them continued even after learning the truth.

Rated-M for safety.

* * *

It was a warm day. The sun had risen high above the mountain tops long ago and had now reached the centre of the sky. And down below, hulking figures went about their usual business. Within the large settlement, the Bleeding Hollow allowed nothing to wear them down, not even the scorching rays of the sun that soaked their shirts in sweat and made their heads hurt. Other clans, weaker clans, Frostwolves and Dragonmaws, such frail creatures would walk with hunched shoulders, light loads and cower in the shades. Not so with the Bleeding Hollow. Not even in the absence of foreign clans did they allow themselves to show signs of weakness. The will of their young chief, Kilrogg Deadeye made it so.

Exiting his hut the chieftain let loose a monstrous cry, a bellow that rolled across the settlement and his clan answered with roars of their own, the worgs in the wolf pen joining in with long, echoing howls. It was a greeting, a simple matter of saying "Good morning."

Young as he was, Kilrogg studied the settlement with his single-eyed gaze. He was pleased with what he saw.

As the sun bathed the orcs in heat, they shrugged it off; their reddish brown skin built for enduring whatever challenges this life had to throw at them. They were orcs and orcs were strong, orcs were in control and orcs never bowed before anyone. There was but one time to relax, but one time to be free of the clan's superiour image. As tough as the Bleeding Hollow was, they too recognized the value of childhood. It was only when they suffered the presence of visitors that the pups where forced to stand up straight.

It was down a steep slope, not far from the shamans' hut that the young were gathered now, for the spirits had gifted the clan with many potential shamans this generation. Thirteen pups in total, between the age of five and nine sat huddled together before a large bonfire. Eight feet above them, a canvas had been raised to offer them shade, a necessary evil to keep their heads cool and their minds clear so that they could concentrate on the Elder's teachings.

The Elder was Tolkoth, son of Ragar, and he was as ancient as his title predicted. Without the aid of the spirits, he was not even able to rise from his bed on his own. But he had been appointed Elder for a reason, he knew what questions to ask, what requests not to speak and how to address the spirits. Traits he didn't see in the cluster of children before him.

Aided by the power of the spirits, the shaman rose to his full height, and cast his arms to the side, his talbuk-hide cloak tied to his wrists, giving his silhouette the illusion of wings, and he had their full attention. In his hands he held a gnarled staff, decorated with the bones of ogre fingers and toes and on his head he bore the skull of a talbuk. Stepping closer to the fire, the Elder addressed the orc pups.

"I know what you younglings want to learn, it's always the same. You want to create floods to wash away ogre raids, call thunderbolts to strike down the gronn, mighty winds that can knock our opponents off their feet, summon wolves and spiders from the woods to assail,…"

The shaman stopped speaking as he watched the young pups. Their eyes were wide and some were even drooling. It was the same every time. This was indeed what they wanted. Spectacular displays of magic, the fury of the elements unleashed completely. The hunger for destruction was strong in the young, which was good, but without the patience and broader perspective that followed with maturity such hunger would only result in doom. But, he mused, that was why they began their training early.

"You," he called out and pointed his finger at one of the female pups. "Of what use is the element of Fire?"

The girl stood up, proud that she had been chosen and spoke with glee of thunder and infernos and monstrous heat and all the children around her agreed heartily.

The Elder however was grinning. "Yes. And what else?"

Now the little girl was at a loss. She pondered the question for a long time, thinking as hard as she could to find some other form of purpose, but came up empty. At least she didn't need to feel embarrassed, for all the others had been thinking just as hard with the same result, which made the Elder chuckle warmly. Destruction was indeed all that they thought of.

"Look before you." He said and pointed at the campfire in the middle of their learning circle. "Without fire, how would we stay warm at night? How would we survive the long winters? Or cook our meals? With what would we light the funeral pyres of the honourable dead? You see the elements around you all the time. You just need to learn where to look."

"Of what use is the element of Water?" He asked and this time the girl answered eagerly; "Drink!" to which the Elder nodded approvingly. "But also rain that makes the grass grow, and where the grass grows the clefthoof come to eat."

"As a shaman I can call upon the spirits of Fire, and keep the fires alive in the strongest wind, so that harsh weather does not kill us during the cold winters. I can call upon Air in the hunts, so that our prey cannot smell our scent on the wind. When you fall ill to disease or the fangs of venomous prey I can seek our ancestral spirits for aid, for they know all the lore and remedies of the land. And if you still hunger for destruction, all this will serve to keep our warriors alive so they wreak it on our foes."

That last sentence brought forth a roar of approval from the warriors closest to the teaching circle, all of them covered in scars of battle, some of which should have been fatal.

"And with the spirits' aid, I can heal our wounded in battle." He mused and turned his gaze back to the pups. He was glad for the presence of the scarred warriors; it gave credibility to his teachings. "That one." Elder Tolkoth said and pointed a clawed finger at the closest of the warriors as he bent down to pick up a heavy barrel as large as his upper torso.

"Kul'droth Dog-breath, stealthiest tracker of the clan. You would do well to remember his face. His skills are formidable despite his size and he has needed my assistance many times. Not ten years back, I found him on the ground during a hunt, his throat torn out by a talbuk's horns."

"You brought him back from the dead?" One of the pups asked and his jaw was hanging limp in awe.

Elder Tolkoth chuckled at the question and many of the orcs passing by joined in. "No, little one. When you are dead, you stay dead. This male was mortally wounded and dying. But my request reached the attention of the Spirit of the Wilds in time and the great spirit decided that this was not the brave warrior's time to die. To be able to treat such a dire wound is a once in a lifetime event and few shamans experience it, for it is the Spirit of the Wild's greatest gift and not to be taken lightly." The Elder smiled warmly at the memory.

"Could the Spirit of the Wilds bring someone back from the dead?" Asked one of the oldest of the pups, a female with long tusks that would no doubt rival the size of male tusks in her adult years. The sudden question immediately pulled the old shaman back to the present and he looked to the young pup with a bewildered look.

"If the Spirit decides who lives and who dies, could it bring someone back from the dead?"

"It could," the shaman admitted. "But it wouldn't."

"Why not?" Asked another.

"Because death is a part of the natural cycle. All which is born must die and all that dies must join the elements to nurture new life. If a man was to be brought back from the dead, that balance would be broken and chaos would follow. Nobody who is dead walks again."

Elder Tolkoth began to feel weakened and it was all he could do to hide the sudden blast of vertigo that threatened to overwhelm him. Even with the aid of the spirits, he was still old. Clinging to his gnarled staff, he lowered himself to the ground and watched all their faces in turn. They had learned something at least, though as usual, the females still showed more enthusiasm for the destructive aspects of shamanism, but they would learn. They always did.

Among the small crowd he spotted one of the whelps, whose name he could not recall at once, but he did not look impressed. If anything the features on his face spoke of boredom.

"You, the one at the back." The Elder barked harshly and the cluster moved apart to completely reveal the orc. "Speak your name, pup."

Rising to his feet, the child straightened his back and lifted his chin high, locking his gaze with that of the Elder. Such insolence! "I am Ulthash, son of Ezhak of the Deathfist line!" He spoke in a proud voice. Deathfist. The Elder remembered that name and cursed under his breath. As skilled and worthy as that family was, they were famed across all the clan's settlements for their stubborn defiance. This was not going to be easy.

"Speak then, Ulthash of the Deathfist, if something bothers you, don't hide it like a coward." Said the Elder and his words had the intended effect, goading the young orc to lose some of his defiant facade.

"You speak highly of the spirits, but I say we don't need them!" Shouted the young orc, drawing shocked glances and dangerous growls from everybody in the vicinity and a crowd of adults began to form. But no face was as shocked, nor any growl as ferocious as that of the enraged Elder that rose quickly to his feet, despite the pain that shot up his legs and crossed the distance with five long strides.

Elder Tolkoth shuddered visibly, fighting the urge to slap the insolent child off his feet and if not for the presence of the pup's parents in the stunned crowd, he probably would have. Foolish shamans of other clans might've asked the spirits for assistance to emphasize their anger, summoning thunder to scare the pup, but Tolkoth knew better. For one he knew the spirits never answered to tasks the orcs could handle very well without them. Secondly, he knew if they did respond to trivial matters, they might refuse in dire situations. The spirits could be just as mischievous and fickle as their mortal servants.

"Don't,…" He paused, holding back his rage. "Need the spirits? What in hell's name has possessed you to say such a thing, you half-brained little mutt?!"

Ulthash raised his chin even higher before he spoke. "We are orcs! We are Bleeding Hollow! We need nobody else than our own wit and strength! The spirits would have us beg and grovel, they would have us kneel for something we have already tamed!"

This time he did slap the child, ignoring the challenging roar of its parents as they were restrained by the clan elite warriors. "Tamed? You dare assume that nature can be tamed? It is because we are attuned with the elements that we are as strong as you claim." Growling harshly, the Elder pulled Ulthash to his feet by the collar of his shirt and stepped back, almost ashamed by the imprint of his hand on the eight year old whelp's face. Almost.

The child hadn't even whimpered at the blow, his defiant expression not leaving his face for a second. "You speak of rain to water the fields. I say we dig ditches to guide the water where we need it. I say we dig wells. You speak of fire to keep us warm." Ulthash scoffed openly at the notion. "Any child can do that with tinder and flint."

"And what will you do when the howling winter wind claws at your fire and extinguishes it?" Asked the Elder, his voice growing dark.

"Raise a tent." Was the simple answer.

"Ah, then I assume we don't need the aid of the Spirit of the Wilds either during winter when vegetation slumbers and the beasts are harder to find?"

"Good hunters will always find prey. Those who don't will only bring the clan ruin." This time not even the parents supported their child. It was evident from their own expressions that they weren't even certain if this was their actual son. Some among the crowd of adults murmured approval, their clan pride was fierce and they had no well wishes for weaklings. Of the twelve other pups, only eight seemed to disagree with him.

Tolkoth brought his hand to his face and sighed in frustration.

"Spirits. Tell me how to teach this young one."

* * *

When Ulthash awoke the next morning it was because of the heavy bedroll that slammed into his face. Turning his dazed head upwards, he spotted the towering silhouette of his mentor in the entrance to his family's tent.

"Get up, whelp. We have a long trek ahead of us." The Elder barked and had already departed before the pup had a chance to recover.

Defiance glowed in Ulthash' eyes, but he had read as much in his mother's eyes yesterday that to refuse the Elder would hurt her family pride and that at least he would honour. Picking up his bedroll he looked towards his family on the far side of their tent, but none of them looked back. Not his father, not his mother, nor his two elder sisters or his younger brother.

With a snort he bolted out the entrance and caught up with the Elder soon enough.

The shaman had not been joking when he said they had a long travel. Together they walked out the gates, away from the settlement, across the plains and the rivers and by the time they took their first break, the settlement was only barely visible behind them.

"Where are you taking me, Elder?" Asked the inquisitive boy.

"Where the spirits tell me." Answered the old man simply. "Now start walking. We don't have time to rest." Uttering a prayer to the spirits, the shaman was able to ignore the stabbing pain in his knees and doubled his pace with long strides. When Ulthash asked why they didn't use worgs, the Elder would shut him up by saying that orcs did not need such luxuries.

For the most part, the shaman didn't speak. In fact he hardly did anything, forcing Ulthash to light fires, hunt or fish for food and gather herbs to smoke when Tolkoth needed spiritual guidance. But young orcs are adventurous by heart and for each time the Pale Lady rose from the horizon to join the stars in the night sky, Ulthash yearned to travel farther. It was only a matter of time before it was the shaman who complained about the pace. The world was a far larger place than Ulthash had imagined. At the most he had gone to another Bleeding Hollow settlement and that had been no more than one day of travel.

Each time they sat up camp, Ulthash would ask where they were going. It was on the fifth day that the shaman answered. "Five days ago, I received a vision from the ancestral spirits. They spoke of an event, a rare sight that not even the long-lived draenei are likely to see more than once in their lifetime, if even that. This event does not wait for anyone, especially not the living."

In the depths of his mind, for he refused to admit it so the shaman could hear, Ulthash was inclined to believe something good could actually come from this. The perils of the night frightened him, and he relished in that fear, loathing the protective safety of the settlements. The opportunity to challenge the night was not one he was about to turn from. Orcs were strong. Orcs were in control and orcs never bowed before anyone. He would let nothing humble him.

* * *

When at last they reached their destination, eight days had passed since they had set out and Ulthash still had no idea why they were here. They weren't even in Bleeding Hollow territory anymore, they had crossed the border into the lands of the Thunderlord clan, and as much as Ulthash revered Kilrogg Deadeye, he knew the Wolfbrother line to be equally ferocious.

It wasn't that he was afraid, he told himself. He just didn't want to be blamed for Tolkoth's folly. The way he held his arms close to his chest and made his steps as quiet as he could betrayed his mask of confidence. They stopped near a river and far ahead of him to the north he could see a towering mountain, alone on the plains.

Dropping his bedroll, the venerable shaman muttered a prayer of relief. Whatever the spirits had told him, it appeared he had gotten here in time. Now Elder Tolkoth turned towards Ulthash and held up his hand in the direction of the mountain. He had been silent for so long that he startled Ulthash when he spoke.

"You say we have tamed Water, as we can dig wells and ditches as we desire. You say we have tamed Fire, since we can create it with tinder and fuel and build tents to shield it from the winds of Air. And you say we don't need the Spirit of the Wilds, since no prey can hide forever from the tracking skills of orcs."

Ulthash nodded eagerly, hoping his mentor had finally found reason.

"But what of Earth?" Mused the old shaman and gave his student a small smile, to which Ulthash stared disbelieving.

"Earth?! Earth is just that, dirt! Earth is rocks we use to make weapons, it's ground to stand on, it's mud for childish pups to throw at each other!"

For once, Tolkoth didn't turn angry or sad at this outburst of disrespect, but only kept smiling, though no longer at Ulthash.

"It's clay to make pots and houses and,…what are you looking at?" Said the boy and ceased his tantrum. When he received no answer, the boy grew angry and instead turned around to find out what was so important. What he saw made his jaw hit the ground.

An ear-splitting roar shook his world as the mountain before him literally exploded. It was like the cracking sound of a thousand avalanches and a thousand lightning strikes at the same time, drowning all other noise in its terrifying majesty. The ground shook and twisted for miles in every direction, throwing the youngling off his feet and onto his backside.

Ulthash didn't run. He didn't know why, but something told him he and his mentor were safe on the southern side. Still he could see the wave of dust flooding out to the west, a cloud of ash, gravel and heat. This was destruction like nothing else. Here was Earth and Fire in union, and in the heavens above, the ash and dangerous vapours mixed with the Water in the clouds, that would be carried all over the world by the winds of Air. And all life that didn't heed the fright of birds and beasts of the Wilds were doomed for their lack of caution.

At last another noise broke him out of his trance-like state and he looked up at his mentor. The old shaman was laughing, loud and heartily. He leaned on his staff and let his lungs howl in amusement at his student's face and for the first time, his words made sense.

"Tame the volcano."


End file.
